The Accidental Abduction

by Darcie Wilde

  Leannah looked again at Mr. Valloy’s face, and at the wintery disgust in his dark eyes. Oh, yes, if she began to cry now, he would believe her to be simple, weak, overwhelmed. She thought of her father in the study, of all his practiced manipulation of others. She thought of how he used his charm, his distracting humor, and ability to spin endless excuses and complex tales to turn away the troubles he himself had created. She thought about how her mother had cried and pleaded and swooned to help salvage what she could when the failures finally came.

  Her hand curled into a fist, and she missed the touch of Harry’s ring, the one talisman she had of him. Harry did not prevaricate. He did not manipulate those around him. He acted from honest and passionate impulse. He risked scandal and outrage to take the cleaner course, even when he had no idea where it might lead.

  But Harry Rayburn was a man. His father was prosperous, his sister married into the aristocracy. They did not depend on him. If impulse and honesty led him astray, he alone would pay the price.

  She was not a child this time. In this moment here, alone in her heart and her mind, she must choose, for her family and for herself. The weight was impossible to bear. It would crush her. It was crushing her. She must wrench each word out from under it.

  “If you . . . if you must have my answer now, sir, then you will.” Her fist curled tighter. The absence of the ring struck deeper. Harry was not here. He could not rescue her from this moment.

  “My answer is no.”

  Twenty-Six

  Dearest Harry,

  I regret that I have been delayed. I still hope to meet you at our rooms tonight and will come as soon as I can.

  I am sorry,

  Leannah

  Harry folded the letter carefully. Leannah had a neat hand, clear yet graceful. It suited her. The letter was unscented and sealed with a plain wafer. He was aware he was concentrating on these tiny details in a futile attempt to hold back the disappointment flooding through him. She had, after all, warned him something might happen. Her father’s health was fragile, she said, and there was no denying the news of her marriage would be unsettling, if not shocking. Look at how his family had received it.

  No, don’t. Harry grit his teeth.

  After his disastrous visit home, he took his time making his way back to the hotel. He hadn’t wanted to return to Leannah until at least some of the anger and bewilderment faded. Nothing that had happened between his family and himself was her fault. He didn’t want her blaming herself for it.

  So, he dismissed the hack and started walking. He continued to walk until he was able to convince himself that it would all work out. This marriage might not last forever, despite his best intentions, but it was too soon for troubles to begin. Surely, they could have another little space of time with each other, to explore and understand, and to dream. He stood by the river and wondered how things could possibly have gone worse. He passed the Houses of Parliament and wondered exactly when his nearest and dearest had become so pigheaded. He made his way across Hanover Square, wondering exactly when that same state of mind had overtaken him.

  Despite all that, he had not only wanted Leannah to be waiting for him in their rooms, he’d needed her. He needed to wrap her in his arms and reassure himself that she was real. After listening to his parents and his sister level accusations of deceit and fraud, he needed to not just hold her, but to talk with her. He needed to hear her say again what she felt and what she meant to do. She had to tell him that although she might not yet love him, she wanted time to find that love.

  Harry stopped in front of the hearth and ran both hands through his hair. He was pacing. This was no good. He needed to get out, find some fresh air and clear his head. Then again, maybe not. He’d already walked half the length of the city and it didn’t seem to have done much good. Still, if the choice was between walking and staying in here and brooding, he knew which he preferred.

  “Lewis,” he called to the maid who was at her station in Leannah’s rooms. “If Mrs. Rayburn comes back, tell her I’ve gone for a walk. I won’t be long.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harry retrieved hat, coat, and stick. At least it wasn’t raining anymore. Marshall was running out of dry coats for him to borrow. Perhaps he’d walk to Hyde Park, take a ramble across the meadows. Or perhaps he should head for Bond Street. The idea pleased him. He was, after all, a married man. He should find a present for his wife; something that would bring a light to her lovely green eyes and maybe make her throw her arms around his neck and shower him with kisses. But his competency didn’t extend to choosing hats or handkerchiefs. A pet didn’t seem appropriate. A piece of jewelry? Something to make up for the fact that she was married with a borrowed ring that did not suit the size of her hand or the form of her character.

  With these pleasant thoughts accompanying him, Harry walked down toward the lobby. But when he reached the broad landing, he froze. Two men stood at the front desk talking to the clerk, and he knew them both. The man doing the talking was none other than Nathaniel Penrose and behind him loomed Philip Montcalm.

  Harry could not imagine his friends had arrived to wish him joy. Much to his chagrin, he considered hurrying back up the stairs before he was seen. But Harry dismissed that notion as soon as it occurred. Whatever else he did, he would not play the coward’s part.

  Taking a firmer grip on his stick and his nerve, Harry walked down the stairs and straight across the Colonnade’s busy lobby.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” he said as he came up behind his friends.

  Both men turned. Seen side by side, they were a study in contrasts. Philip was tall, lean, and fair. His dark gold hair and deep-set eyes generally earned him the description of “leonine,” especially back in the day when he earned his reputation as one of the most notorious rakes in all London.

  Nathaniel was the shorter of the two, and broader. With his black hair and blue eyes, he could pass for an Irishman or a Frenchman as easily as he could an aristocrat. He had, in fact, passed as each when his work for the navy demanded it. Right now, dressed neatly in a plain black coat, white shirt, and dark trousers, and standing beside the impeccable Montcalm, Nathaniel looked more like a private secretary than anything else.

  “So,” Harry planted his stick firmly in front of him. “Who told you two about my marriage? No, wait, let me guess . . .”

  “Fiona.” They all said together.

  “You can’t blame her for being concerned,” said Philip. Harry had known Philip Montcalm for less than a year. Last season Montcalm had entered into his own unexpected marriage. His chosen wife happened to be one of Fiona’s best friends and a lady Harry had known since childhood. Since then, he’d discovered the former “Lord of the Rakes” was a good man, a devoted husband, and a steady friend.

  Harry was not, however, in any mood to be mollified by anybody regarding yet another instance of Fiona’s presumption. “I can blame her for interfering.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” replied Nathaniel calmly. “Either way, I don’t think this is something you want to discuss in the lobby.”

  Harry didn’t like the look his friend was giving him. It was too quiet, too calm. It made him feel as if Nathaniel was waiting for him to give something away. His temper was still sore, but he reined back his impulsive retort. This encounter with his best friends had to come, just like his encounter with his family. Better to get it over with.

  Still, he was not going to risk Leannah returning to find these two in their rooms making whatever arguments or accusations they might have.

  “I’ve arranged for a private room at the coffeehouse next door,” said Nathaniel.

  “Of course you have,” muttered Harry. “Bloody spy.”

  Nathaniel smiled, and bowed, entirely unperturbed. “Are you coming?”

  Harry sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

  As they started together for the doors and the street, Harry couldn’t help but notice how Philip walked directly behi
nd him. “What’s the matter, Montcalm?” he muttered. “Do you think I’m going to make a dash for it?”

  “Could you blame me if I did?”

  “Yes, sir, I could.”

  “That’s your prerogative.” Like Nathaniel, Philip would not be drawn out.

  St. Alban’s coffeehouse was a noisy, smoky place, occupied by men who hunched over their cups and their newspapers. They clearly knew Nathaniel here, because when the three men walked through the doors, the stout dame who kept the moneybox hailed him immediately. She conducted them personally up to a clean but Spartan sitting room, where the coffee and cups waited on the sideboard.

  Philip passed the woman a coin, and shut the door behind them. Nathaniel poured himself some coffee and stirred in a sugar lump, tasted, and added another.

  Harry set hat and stick aside, and dropped into the nearest chair.

  “All right, we’re here. Now.” He held up his fingers so he could tick off the various points his friends no doubt intended to make. “I’m a fool. I’m being imposed upon. No good will come of it. Is there anything else?”

  Nathaniel and Philip exchanged glances that held more than a hint of amusement.

  “It’s what I admire about you, Harry,” said Philip, settling himself into another chair. “Straight at ’em and damn the maneuvers.”

  “I’m in no mood to be mocked, Philip,” Harry growled. “Or managed,” he added to Nathaniel, who stood at the sideboard stirring yet another sugar lump into his coffee. He must be up to five by now.

  “No one’s going to do either,” said Philip. “But we’re your friends, Harry.”

  “Yes, yes, and my family’s already thoroughly covered the subject of what an idiot Harry is. They did so, may I add, without ever having met my wife.”

  He sat back and waited for his friends, like his family, to protest, but Nathaniel only shook his head.

  “Your family may not have met the new Mrs. Rayburn, but I have.”

  “As have I,” said Philip.

  Harry started, but then realized he shouldn’t have been so surprised. Despite how it sometimes appeared, London society was a fairly small world. Any one person might easily be no more than two or three introductions from any other.

  “She didn’t come up to town until after she was Mrs. Wakefield,” Philip went on. “Beautiful young woman.” If Harry didn’t know how firmly Philip had renounced his rake’s existence, he might have been jealous of the keen appreciation that filled his voice. “Impeccable manners. A little wistful, perhaps, but she was married right out of the schoolroom to a much older man.”

  Nathaniel nodded, sipped his coffee, and got up to add yet another sugar lump. “Her marriage to Wakefield was very much the usual thing. He hoped to get himself an heir, and he made an excellent settlement in return for her hand.”

  Harry felt his gaze flicker from Nathaniel to Philip. They were working their way up to something, but he could not yet fathom what it was. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but Leannah has already told me this.” Most of it, anyway.

  “Did she tell you what happened to the money?” Although Nathaniel had gotten his brew sweet enough, he didn’t sit down. He stood by the window, drinking, and looking out at the street, apparently idly, but Harry knew that was a ruse. Nathaniel was watching for something, or somebody.

  “She told me the money’s gone, and yes, she told me before we married,” he added.

  “Did she tell you how it was lost?” inquired Philip.

  “From the way you say that, I gather you feel it’s important.”

  This last seemed to strain even Nathaniel’s patience. “Stop it, Harry. You’re acting like we’re the board of inquiry.”

  “What you’re acting like is a pair of barristers with me on the witness stand,” he shot back. “Listen to me, both of you. You have clearly come to present some horrible secret about my new wife, so you may as well just come out with it and save us all a lot of time.”

  Philip set his cup down. “Harry, Mrs. Rayburn’s maiden name is Leannah Morehouse, and her father is Octavian Morehouse.”

  “And?”

  Philip’s brows shot up in genuine surprise. “You never heard of him?”

  Nathaniel uttered a soft oath. “No, he hasn’t. Of course, I should have realized. He was out of the country when it all happened.” His face turned dark, and blatantly suspicious.

  “And the family cleared out so quickly, the immediate scandal died away. Even if the aftershocks didn’t,” added Philip.

  “And the biggest part of that scandal was what didn’t happen . . .” Nathaniel spoke these words softly, but his anger rang in each one.

  “Are you two here to talk to me or each other?” cut in Harry.

  “Sorry, Harry.” Nathaniel took a healthy swallow of coffee, and glanced out over the street one more time. Was he looking for Leannah? Or somebody else? “The facts are these. Octavian Morehouse was—is—one of those men who play the markets. A speculator.”

  “Unfortunately,” sighed Philip, “he had a tendency to play with other people’s money.”

  “I’m sorry?” When had the room turned so cold? Harry glanced toward the coffee service, but he decided he’d be damned if he got up to take a cup. He didn’t want either man to see him in the least disconcerted. He wasn’t disconcerted. He was angry that his friends were proving as unreasonable as his family. It was enough to make a man wonder how he’d ever decided to trust any of them.

  Philip leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Morehouse would talk wealthy individuals into giving him their money to invest in various shares. Always claimed to have insight into some infallible scheme or the other. There was nothing he wouldn’t touch—housing developments, canals, bridges, all manner of corporations.” Philip paused, to make sure he had Harry’s complete attention. “He tried his patter on me, not once, but several times.”

  “So you’re saying Leannah’s father is a fraud?”

  “Not a complete fraud, no,” said Philip. “A number of his investments returned incredible sums.”

  “Which were then followed by incredible losses,” said Nathaniel.

  “Stocks are a risky game.” Now he sounded hesitant, like he was making excuses. Dammit all, Harry cursed silently. He needed to get a handle on himself. But his mind kept returning to his empty rooms at the Colonnade, and to Leannah’s note where she said she’d been delayed. That led him back to his own walk across London, the one he took to try to escape all the accusations that had been made already.

  I will not hear this. I will not let them slander Leannah in front of me. And yet he did not interrupt. He told himself he needed to hear everything they had to say, so he could refute it in its entirety.

  “Yes, stocks are very risky. Which was why most people were inclined to excuse the losses, and why he was accepted in society for as long as he was. He did make money for some men, at least for a while. He was also notoriously charming.”

  Nathaniel took up the thread. “The last straw came after his daughter’s marriage. As I said, Elias Wakefield made an incredibly generous settlement on his new bride. He also gave Morehouse carte blanche to manage his affairs.”

  We have no money. My father is not well, Leannah’s words came echoing back. Harry felt the blood drain slowly from his face.

  “There was never any evidence of actual fraud, you understand,” said Nathaniel. “But Morehouse did burn through thirty thousand pounds in less than five years. Apparently, the first Elias Wakefield knew of how far matters had gone was when the beadles showed up to take some horses that Morehouse had put up as collateral for a loan.”

  “What did Wakefield do?” Harry’s voice had gone hoarse, and his temper turned on himself. It might sound as if he was shocked, as if he had begun to doubt Leannah.

  Nathaniel drained his coffee cup. “He paid off the loan. Loans, I should say. There were several by that point. To say he acted with charity toward the family that ruined him is put
ting it mildly.” He looked into the dregs. Harry found himself wondering if Nathaniel had known Mr. Wakefield’s family, and if he had warned him as he was now attempting to warn Harry.

  Stop, he ordered himself. Do not even begin to think on it. There is nothing to this, nothing that involves Leannah at least. She is not responsible for her father’s failings.

  “He had to sell off much of what he still owned to pay the notes. He was dying at the time, and he knew it. In his will, he left his remaining land in trust to his wife’s younger brother.”

  Harry’s mouth had gone dry. He looked to the coffee again. This time, he knew Nathaniel saw him do it. Damnit. They were getting to him, despite everything. He was tired, worn down from his walk and his argument with his father. Harry’s hand curled into a fist where it rested on the chair arm. “If Wakefield made her brother his heir, he must have loved her.” He must have known she was not to blame for what happened.

  “Or he wanted to avoid the worst of the scandals,” said Philip. “Which would have included admitting he was duped for the sake of . . .”

  “Don’t. You. Dare.” Harry leveled his gaze at his friend. He was fully aware of sizing the other man up. He couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t want to stop himself. If Philip finished that sentence, he’d serve him as well as he’d served Dickenson. Nathaniel could have his share, too, if he wanted it.

  Philip held up both hands. “All right, I won’t. But think, will you? A woman brings a wealthy and well-known merchant’s son to a country inn. She’s beautiful. She’s heartbroken and in dire straits. Maybe it’s a coincidence. All well and good. But then her uncle, who just happens to be a clergyman just happens to arrive on the scene with a special license on which the names have not yet been entered? If someone told you this story what would you say it sounded like?”